


The Aftermath

by UnnamedElement (Unnamed_Element)



Series: After the War (Collection) [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Content warning: discussion of depression-related symptoms, Derealization, Epistolary, Friendship, Frodo has had heaps of trauma piled onto him, Gandalf is sweet, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Legolas & Gimli are the best of bros, Legolas bakes, Loss, Mortality, Podfic Available, Recovery, Sea-longing (Tolkien), Traumatic Stress, after the war, and obviously, light humor, mental health, vicarious trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27797947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unnamed_Element/pseuds/UnnamedElement
Summary: "What you describe is common enough in warriors, and those who have labored long and hard but feel they have not reaped—those of us who have been dipped into like wells in a time of drought, until we come up dry as bone with nothing left for ourselves. // Did that make sense, Frodo, the words? I am trying to describe to you the weight of sacrifice..."After the quest, Frodo seeks support in an unlikely source, and Legolas struggles to fit himself into a post-war world with his new affliction, the Sea-longing. This epistolary follows Frodo, Legolas, and Gandalf's perspectives on sailing, reflections on the far-reaching impacts of trauma, and the elf's attempts to pull himself out of an uncontrolled spiral.Contains letters, journals, angst, baking, bittersweet, half-resolutions, and--of course--Gimli.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins & Legolas Greenleaf, Gandalf | Mithrandir & Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf
Series: After the War (Collection) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028379
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	The Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This was first published elsewhere in Spring 2017, in a collection of one-shots called "Midden." Its original note is at the end.
> 
>  **Original characters mentioned in this story that aren’t actually that important:**  
>  1\. Ithildim: Legolas' dearest friend, with whom he spent substantial amounts of time growing up, and with whom he served as co-captain. (Ithildim is sometimes more than a dearest friend, but that is not relevant to this story in particular.) Ithildim has not yet migrated to Ithilien.  
> 2\. Saida: One of Legolas & Ithildim's age-mates. They grew up training together in warcraft and forestry, though she eventually left the army. She is an aunt to the two children mentioned in this story, who were orphaned during the Battle Under the Trees, and she has moved with Legolas and the children to Ithilien.  
> 3\. Lumornon: Legolas' older brother and eldest sibling. Lives still in Mirkwood with their father.  
> 4\. Felavel: Legolas' older sister, who died at war when he had just come into adulthood. A younger sister is also mentioned in this piece, and she has already passed beyond the Sea.

* * *

**The Aftermath  
**

* * *

_Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
The bloom-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned…_

_—excerpt from "The Second Coming" (William Butler Yeats, 1920)_

* * *

.

* * *

**1\. The First Letters**

Dear Legolas,

I will be forward and tell you that I almost hate to write, because writing means admitting that Merry broke your confidence. Though I assure you that he did it with the very best intentions! I will tell you what happened.

I had been unwell and became withdrawn. I turned to Merry for comfort, because Sam is becoming who he always wanted to be, and Merry suffers less than Sam, with his confidence, and so has more energy to spare. I told Merry I felt that I no longer belonged here, and Merry told me I should write to you for advice, because neither did you feel like you anymore belonged. I assumed Merry spoke of the sea-longing, but I did not know you had decided to stay in Middle-earth, though Merry insists you have. He would not say more, and it seemed to me a conversation you had maybe just with Merry, and I did not want him to feel he had betrayed you anymore than he had already done for my sake. Merry has a good heart, as I am sure you know.

I do not, I think, know you as well as I would like. We travelled together so briefly, and I was not as present as I would have liked to be after the quest, so I did not get to know you in Minas Tirith, either. But I think that Merry is right and I should ask you or strike a correspondence, because I know no one else who does not want to be in this life, but stays anyway. I didn't know it was possible to survive that, though I think we have all survived enough. I suppose I feel comfortable with you, at least enough to ask.

Please do not feel obligated to write back; I have been told that elves do not like to give advice, because their advice is often misintrepreted—I promise, I hold you to no more than your words, Legolas, and whatever I do with them, you are absolved from the consequence.

I did not know where to send this, but the rumor from Sam (through Gandalf) is that you are living in Ithilien, but I honestly don't know where in Ithilien, so you will, I imagine, find this with Aragorn.

With tender respect,

Frodo

* * *

Dearest Frodo,

Gandalf delivered your letter to Aragorn, but it took another week to find its way to me. Thank you for writing. It is good you can ask for support when you find that need in yourself—it means you are still awake to the world, and that is the root of it, I think. The root of surviving, I mean—being awake to things, inside and out.

I learned to use Tengwar in the Common Tongue for Gimli, but I am not yet very good. Some things I will try to write in simple Elvish, if I cannot say it this way or if I cannot figure out the sounds, and I will just hope you understand.

What is it that is different now in living that was not so before? Tell me about when you knew you had changed. What does it feel like? Tell me two things, examples.

I asked Gandalf to carry this back to you, but he is not going to the Shire for a while, he said. He suggested I use a bird, which I thought was very funny, but he meant it. I told Mithrandir that birds never really paid me mind, so I did not at all expect this to work, and he laughed at me. Apparently, he thinks I talk to birds often! But, perhaps I should have before, because I somehow convinced one to listen to me, chosen at random from the mannish lands of Gondor.

I suppose if you never get this letter, you will not even know I tried to send it! But if you do get it, I hope you find the method of delivery amusing, at the least.

Give Merry and Pippin and Samwise my very best.

With love,

Legolas

* * *

. **  
**

* * *

**2\. Journal: The Sea**

I am not sure quite what the point is in writing down one's own thoughts to read later. It is not something I grew up learning to do. My father was the only one I ever saw writing for himself. He used to do so every day, and I remember sitting in his study tending to my own business as he did it; once upon a time, I drew a lot, and I had—at least briefly—required studies.

After I was grown, though, and Mother left, I never visited his study for leisure. I did not, in fact, even live with him; we did not—any of us—want to see one another for quite some time. By the time we were all together again, I had no desire to sit and wile away the hours while my father carried out his nightly duties. He was no longer just a father; my brother no longer just a brother; and I was no longer just the younger son—we were a king and a crown prince and a warrior, one of whom was not very skilled at all in filling the new gaps in courtly duties. I had been too long allowed to run and train and _be_ out of doors, and I was more wild than my siblings. My father's advisor suggested quite quickly that I stay in the woods, and I was happy to oblige. I moved outside the halls soon thereafter.

I asked Lumornon once if father writes anymore, and Lumornon says he does not. Or at least he _did not_ at the point at which I inquired, which was some time between Smaug first coming to the mountain and the dwarves trying to take it back; I do not know exactly when. Father is warm again, now, but he is certainly not whole, though I expect he is more whole in Mirkwood than he could be anywhere else.

He does not write, I think, because he does not want to feel the hurt, or see laid out before him in ink the emptiness of his days. (Though they are truly so full, and he is filled with contradiction!) But _I_ write, maybe, to do just what father wishes to avoid—to see my life laid out before me in that stark contrast, a reminder of what compels me to love and moves me to awaken, alive and here and wholly present, every day that I have, regardless of all the things I have lost.

If it is written down, it is here, and it _happened_ —it is differentiated from the rest, and so I can tell the days apart.

Oh, I did not feel that tug for so long (or what has become long to me, running the paths of mortals, as I do). I thought I had made peace!

But when Frodo wrote me, the surprise of it knocked something loose, and it forced me to think deeper than the everyday rhythm of run, sow, plant, hunt, weed, bake, sleep—or whatever it is I do every day.

Something in me was disturbed, and perhaps it is for the better, for no matter how much I resist, or hem-and-haw, the moon rises and sets and waxes and wanes and pulls and pulls and _pulls_.

And the sea? Oh, the sea! It does not take well to being ignored.

* * *

. **  
**

* * *

**3\. How Things Are Different**

Dear Legolas,

Things are so different now that I cannot find just two to choose! There is the joy and pain and sorrow that comes from being with Sam and those that know of our struggle, but then the utter disconnect from those that know nothing about it at all, or only peripherally, like Fatty, my dear old friend. Some days I see the world through a mist, and people stand before me and speak of their little frustrations and I can barely fake concern, because they do not know—even the Scouring was but a sliver of the horror that I saw.

(But some days I am good—then it is fine, and I am happy.)

I do not know your history, but I felt that this is maybe something that you know—I am so desperate to ground myself.

Thank you,

Frodo

* * *

Dear Frodo,

My life's story is neither here not there to you, I think, but I will tell you what of it might help, in time. What you describe is common enough in warriors, and those who have labored long and hard but feel they have not reaped—those of us who have been dipped into like wells in a time of drought, until we come up dry as bone with nothing left for ourselves.

Did that make sense, Frodo, the words? I am trying to describe to you the weight of sacrifice. So often after war we must return to daily tasks that no longer make sense to us, and there is not a one there to remind us why we do what we do—no one to tell us why breaking fast in the morning is important, to tell us to take pleasure in straightening our clothes and turning our faces to the sun, to force us to sit out of doors without our hands on bow, without looking over our shoulder and waiting for a creeping evil…

But if we ask those around us—that love us—to remind us of these things, we can find pleasure in them again. Even with the pull of the sea at my heart and my mind, I can find joy under tree, or within Aragorn and Gimli's stone halls. But it is not easy, and I have given up much to be so grounded, and my friends and those who love me have given up much to keep me so.

But, Frodo, still… It is so important that we ask ourselves what we root ourselves _for_ ; not just how we do it—for that is different for each of us—but _why_. Sometimes I stop and think of all those things—the things I love and all the people who love me, of how they pull me to the earth like a weight, catch round my toes and wrap up my legs, twisting around me like the very roots of Arda.

But you and I, Frodo, are—I think—pulled away from this place by very different things… I do not know what is enough for you, or how to recover those things for you, so that you have enough to keep you here. Do you know, my friend? And if you know, do you want it…?

Thoughtfully,

Legolas

* * *

Dear Gimli,

It has been too long, _Elvellon_! Things here are going well and there is a new Wood-elf arriving, it seems, every new moon, as if we purposefully follow the cycle of lunar things. The folk here are doing well, and this will be a good place. There are even children here now! Many moved from Mirkwood to start somewhere new after the Battle Under the Trees—their parents could not stand the darkened and crumbling wood, though I hear it is now green again. I do not know that I could bare it either…

Recently I have been working with Faramir to patrol the borders; there is still a lot of evil in this place, as everywhere, I imagine. I try my best to avoid Minas Tirith except for work—the city has become overwhelming, unless I am alone and can give myself fully to the ebb and flow of people. That is a good sign for Aragorn, though—men flock to it, for trade and leisure and a new place to be.

I do not think you have been there since they washed the walls of soot—it is like a white city, Gimli, entirely—a snowcap on the mountain! I cannot wait to meet you there, when you go; I will go to the city to watch you see it; it will be like you are seeing it if for the very first time. And your gates, how they shine!

But I must be honest. This place does well, but I think maybe I do not. There is a despair stirring in me that I thought I had banished. I miss you, Gimli, and yearn for your wise words and steady presence as I go about my daily life. Would that I could visit! But these days the Glittering Caves seem so far, and I seem to have…over-comitted myself in my new home. I would ask you to come to visit me, but even that seems presumptuous, because I know you are just as busy!

Tell me then, instead, of your land and your people, if you will. How are the caves progressing? Is the beauty you showed me still unequalled, or have your folk coaxed something out of that living stone that was hidden, and rivals it?

Oh, and we must begin to ponder how best to entertain Aragorn next time you are here! He is distracted these days—overwhelmed by kingly duties—and it is most amusing (except when I worry for him; he does not always care for himself). He is in the perfect state for us to plan and tease—something extravagant, I think; the best time for fun.

There is a mourning dove on the branch near me. Do you remember when I told you of my older sister? Her favorite song was about mourning doves and the beauty of twilight, but there is nothing about these doves, to me, that is not wholly sad. But perhaps that is because she sang of them.

I am realizing that I find birds rather unintelligent. This one, for example, does not challenge the grackle above him—though they _are_ nasty creatures, grackles!—and the grackle is much nearer a feeder that one of the children made than the dove. Does the dove not see an easy meal? Has it no sense of self-preservation? Will he not challenge the other bird to survive, or is he too complacent, too sure of his next meal? He will never know what he is capable of in times of need if he spends his whole life cowering before a grackle…

I have promised to bake for Saida's neice and nephew, and the sun is setting already, now, and the dove cries—I am one to talk of distraction! (As I know you would tell me, were you here.) I will leave off for now.

I hope to see you soon, my friend, and, in the meantime, I eagerly wait to hear from you, and of what you do.

In love and fellowship,

Legolas

* * *

Dearest Legolas,

You do not sound particularly well—more flighty than usual, I venture. I am glad you will say all this to me, though. That eases my heart.

Things are going well here, and I am glad things go well, too, for the elves and men of Ithilien. Here, we have not found anything more beautiful than what we already knew—we have only unearthed even more unbelievable things, rooms upon rooms of sprawling jewels and dripping pillars of flowing stone. Soon, you should come—it is like nothing you have known, I am sure!

I miss you, too, my friend, but not for your steadiness, to be sure. Our current project will be done in about a week, and one of my dear friends here tells me the moon will be full in two, so I ought to make it to you just as it finishes waning.

What do elves say about the new moon—it is a time for renewal? Rebirth? I cannot always remember your nonsense. But I look forward to seeing you then.

In response to your talk of the dove: We do not have birds in the caves, and there are not interesting creatures inside them, so I have nothing of particular note to share. I did see a mouse, however, scampering along the wall outside the Coomb last week, and it reminded me of you. (I jest, Legolas. You are, of course, mightier than a mouse—I saw a rat recently, too, and a badger. You may take your pick.)

Love,

Gimli

* * *

.

* * *

**5\. Loss**

Dear Frodo,

I thought of something else. I want to start with asking forgiveness, before I even begin, for any untoward bluntness or presumption that follows.

I have not known you long, but there was something you said once that made me think you know loss. I do not remember now what it was, but I remember what it was like outside and where we were; I even remember the rain that clung to your hair like morning mist, for it had stopped raining, finally, on last watch, and it only drizzled when you all finally woke. I was singing and rolling your cousins' bedrolls and blankets when you looked at me, with a slice of dried apple halfway to your mouth—you reminded me, in that moment, of someone I once knew and loved and lost (the way you froze and, squinting into the curtained sun, frowned), so maybe that is why I became attuned to your sorrow.

I do not remember what we talked about when you looked at me then. But I saw something flash in your bright eyes as the sun sank below the horizon that cut me to the quick, and I am not easily unsettled. I think maybe you lost someone that you hardly even knew and that, as much as Bilbo loved you, he could not make up for it in your heart. (Some of us are too distractible to remember to tie our own shoes, let alone care all the time for children—I count myself among those folk, so please do not think I mean to speak ill of Bilbo.)

When you are occupied and fortified and whole, you do not not feel that kind of loss; it is not until you slow that it comes into you like water in a rock in winter and, as it freezes, every season becomes a little more worn. Sometimes that kind is worse, I think, than having loved and remembered and lost—for as it expands, it is emptiness, and it swallows you up.

Mine? It drowns me now, like the sea, and I do a lot of swimming just to stay afloat. But I manage it, and, as long as I do, that makes me glad.

I point out this possible sorrow—or whatever I saw in you—not to be cruel, but so that you are conscientious of it as you learn your new life, shaped from these most recent losses, upset by reality: how you thought the world was and should be, compared to how you found it really is—that is the greatest loss, and the hardest of all to reconcile.

Say hello to Sam and his darling wife for me. Word came to me through Faramir (who was told by Eowyn, who corresponds with Eomer, and heard from Merry) that he is expecting a baby, and that he will name it something Elvish. (The name I was told—skeptically—by Faramir was Elvoreninin. Somehow, I do not think that bit accurately survived the telling!)

In peace,

Legolas

* * *

.

* * *

**6\. Leaving: A Message from Mithrandir**

Legolas,

Frodo tells me he has been writing to you. He values your wisdom greatly, and while I would usually laugh and caution against such a thing, it does seem, in this case, perfectly apt. Perhaps you do not know, young one, what power you have with your friends.

Frodo is not well, Legolas, and he will not _become_ well here. I will soon leave Middle-earth, and I believe Frodo should come with me. Perhaps you will come, too. But whether you do or not, say a thing or two to Frodo, will you? Let him know that someone besides this old man knows what it is to be pulled home, and that there is nothing weak in giving in.

We are not all as strong—or stubborn—as you. I caution you, Frodo should not stay.

As always, Legolas Greenleaf, thank you for your loyal service.

Mithrandir

* * *

Dearest Frodo,

It has been a while since I heard from you. I hope this letter finds you well, or at all!

Have you considered, perhaps, sailing over sea and leaving this place behind, and its sorrow? I have been assured you would be escorted graciouslessly and, I can only imagine, well-received. You did great things for Middle-earth and that is not something its makers forget. Your family and friends would forgive you (though there is nothing you have done that needs forgiveness) and they would grieve, but then be well.

You are grieving, Frodo, but here, and for you, there is no natural release. The land is heavy with your histories: every step you take, every bite of food grown in the loving soil of our own lands—it flows through you like a reminder.

Or so I imagine.

Somewhere cleaner than here, different than the Shire—consider the option.

And please, I beg you, take counsel with Gandalf, too. He is far wiser than this simple Wood-elf!

You are, of course, welcome to visit. Gimli, Aragorn, or I would be happy to have you. And, of course, I could come to you, with enough notice—all you must do is ask.

Fondly,

Legolas

* * *

Dearest Mithrandir,

I cannot leave while Aragorn yet lives, and I will not be parted from Gimli, nor leave behind my love in Mirkwood, who is yet enamored of this land. But thank you for thinking of me. I have written to Frodo. I do not think he will write back. I know, as always, you will watch over him.

For your ever-considerate guidance, I am grateful.

Humbly yours,

Legolas

* * *

.

* * *

**7\. Journal: Birds, Again**

I have never been good with words, as some are. As a rule, I become lost in them. Songs I can write, scouting reports and skirmish summaries. But it is asking too much to write only of myself, for I think I know myself—of everyone I have ever brushed up against—least of all. In everyone else, I look for patterns to understand, but I find none in myself. I am sure one is there, but I have not found the key, and nor can I see it.

When I was very young, my sister once told me that the pen is mightier than the sword, and I did not understand then, because a pen to a sword was very very small, and—as I grew—it became clear that Felavel did not believe that herself. I think she only hoped I would take to being a strategician instead of a forester or a captian, but that was not what I was made for, and she knew it from the moment I trailed her to her practice. These days, she haunts me. I am too still, and I think.

Ithildim has asked the King for permission to move to Ithilien. His father sailed after the War, and Ithildim wrote me a letter in which he said he moved to join me because I am too much alone (among other silly things). At first I thought he was jesting, but Saida does also seem to think I am too solitary, and they keep constant correspondence. Friends as tricky as they are useless for some things, like living peacably, and slipping into the rhythm of the wood between heartbeats.

The robins are back, at the edge of the wood. I went to meet Faramir yesterday, and the path toward Osgiliath was nearly flooded—worms had drowned and sprawled everywhere. It was like a feast for those red-breasts! When the horses came close and threatened their space, though, they did not move, and it was as if they stayed under a spell. One horse stepped over them, even, before I called out and they scattered! And they seemed irked, to me, to leave behind their worms.

So much risk for worms! They could very well have been trampled underfoot for a simple meal, when clearly the worms would still have been there—and just as immobile, just as dead!—a minute later. Perhaps birds do not understand the concept of cause and effect? Of high risk maneuvers and low return? Of pointless sacrifice instead of self-protection? I suppose birds are not trained to think of these things. They have always seemed to me single-minded, but easily distractable.

Gimli often teases by calling me a bird. I thought, perhaps, it was because he found the movement of elves alien. It only now occurs to me that I should maybe be offended!

* * *

.

* * *

**8\. Journal: Confusion**

Much time has passed since I sat and wrote. Much time since I came back from out of doors, from charging the storms that rolled up from the bay, the wind had salt on it and I—

I am not sure I know what day it is. I am not sure whether I meant to write this today or if I started this last night, or intended it, instead, for tomorrow.

Gimli meant to visit when the moon started to wane, but it has since become new and is waxing—the weather is so poor and travel is difficult.

Frodo has not written in, I think, quite a while, and even if he were to write, I do not know that I should write him back. I am almost ready to defer to Aragorn, though I know how much he is—

I am losing track of things. I have been among elves too long, yet it is barely a spring—a blink of an eye since Sauron—

My mind is stuck in a faster stream, and I cannot make sense of it. The only surety left is the season, but they steal my senses, like I am swallowed whole, so—in the end—everything is dark.

* * *

.

* * *

**9\. What has happened to my heart?**

Dear Legolas,

Sam has had his child, and he and Rosie are very happy. Her name is Elanor, for Sam so loved Lothlorien, but it takes after Hobbit-naming, too, since it is a flower.

It hurts me, though, to see Sam bring a child as beautiful as she into this world...

What has happened, Legolas? What has happened to my soul, and to my heart?

The world is good again, but it is like I watch my life ever more through a misted window, as if I am not really here at all.

Frodo

* * *

.

* * *

**10\. Journal: Lost**

Frodo sent me a letter, but I cannot answer because I wonder, too, the very same things. Months on the road with the Ring of power, but this hobbit's words are what undo me; I am the only one of the Fellowship over which he could still possibly hold such sway, and I cannot be what Frodo asks of me, I cannot even be it for myself...

I think maybe I am broken. Is this broken? Is this how it feels? I feel as if I might have fallen on my own sword, slipped over the edge of the falls—everthing is melding into one, a cacophonous song, and I barely hear conversation; I am blending into light, a leaf on the wind—

I do not want to be alone.

Saida and I went hunting today. I do not know what I did there. I do not remember the whole of it of it.

But when we got back, she set a guard at my door and sent in her nephew to play chess with me while she called a healer. I could not hear what they said over the call of the sea. But I saw her writing Gimli, and I forbid her from notifying my father or brother. I think Aragorn will come—

I do not know how this happened or where I went wrong. But part of me has flown.

She says Ithildim has left. I think she meant from Mirkwood, to come here; surely she does not mean Middle-earth.

I am not sure.

I am having a hard time paying attention.

* * *

.

* * *

**11\. A Desperate Invitation**

Dearest Gimli,

I beg you come visit, earlier than your delay had you plan. I am having… a crisis of sorts. And no! It is not about which bushes to encourage in Ithilien, so stop laughing!

I think I am, perhaps, not exactly well; not well at all— _unwell_ , even. Who can know? I certainly do not.

Saida's niece has checked my spelling in the rest of this letter, so if you do not understand, know that I am trying my best but that an elfling is minding my words and I do not have much control over anything.

Clearly, I need a dwarf to keep my feet upon the ground (but truly, I am too much in the trees and my friends here worry, though they have known me too long, and I cannot stop myself from wandering. Speaking has become an effort. I feel like I am losing the ability to connect, my friend; everything slips past me like mist, and I hear the song of tree and stone and sky more easily than I understand our spoken tongues. Part of me is falling asleep, but I cannot have it that way. I still want to be here—awake!—but I am becoming lost to the woods, and the only way I can see to stop it is to hearken to the sea, but I would almost rather die than, right now, attend that need.)

Have you heard the tales of elves that disappear in the forest? As sprites or wights or spirits? These are things humans believe, but now I am not so sure they are untrue. I am not all here, Gimli, and it takes efforts to anchor myself, even as lightly as I am tethered.

Perhaps I am becoming a wood-sprite. Is there any way to tell? I swear it, Gimli, I do not jest—do you have an answer?

You told me once to speak with you plainly. This is me, speaking plainly. I am asking for help, and I need it, and I hope you can tell. It is difficult for me to admit.

Will you come?

I do not know what day it is, only that it has been three days since last it rained, that I have played five games of chess since sunrise, and that I wrote to you last, I think, some time before the spring peepers left us. Is that long or not? Have I been patient, or am I 'pestering,' as Aragorn would say?

Do not speak to him of this letter, by the way. My friend Saida may have him already concerned.

I will ready your quarters in anticipation and will cook for you while you are here. If, that is, this stupid bird can find you.

Love,

Legolas

* * *

.

* * *

**12\. Farewell**

Legolas,

Frodo tried to write you, but he could not find the words. He is sorry he cannot thank you for your support—he is sick now, Legolas. Will you join us? I have sent this letter in early July. We leave from the Havens in two months time.

You have always been more than just a warrior, dear Greenleaf. You think sometimes that you are too far aflight and that you do not understand your mortal friends, but you are wrong. You have grown the garden of this world so thoughtfully, and tended well those around you. Know that whenever you leave, you leave behind a masterpiece as complicated as yourself and as each life you have touched. Whatever you choose, you will still be loved by those who know you and saw you grow, those you have cradled with your friendship and watered with attention and care as if their lives were seeds.

Thank you for allowing me to use you for the good of this world; our tasks required someone with your skills and such humble nature. We are lucky to have found—in the chance of formula—someone as compassionate and fortified as yourself. Compassion has never been your weakness, Legolas, despite my reprimands.

But, some friendly advice from an old man (who has known you a very long time): You _could_ do to assert yourself more, but moreso be gentler with yourself.

I think I already know your answer, young one, and I do not expect to see you for a while, so I will go ahead and bid you farewell, in case your response does not make it to me as quickly as you might yourself. I will be in Rivendell—you might think to send a letter with Arwen or Aragorn, for Arwen may want to tell her father goodbye.

I look forward to seeing you again, whatever guise I walk west of the sea.

Take care, and keep your heart light—

Mithrandir

* * *

Dearest Mithrandir,

My heart is so full but I cannot go. Enjoy the next part of your grand adventure and, if you see them, greet my sisters for me. I think often of you and draw strength from your memory, Gandalf. Tell Frodo he has made a good choice.

I am so glad to be still rooted here, Mithrandir. Every morning I wake and find joy in dew on the spider's web, and I cannot stop myself from following cubs back to their dens when they first sniff winter; I find myself lost at night in the tops of these fair trees. I yearn and I am pulled, but this sorrow highlights everything with such contrast that, perhaps, I am more alive now that I have ever been before. When I am not lost in the wind or the sea or a haze, things are as bright and clear and sharp as my memories of childhood, clean and fresh as the joy I used to feel in learning new things.

It it mortals, Gandalf, and the way they know time.

I have never owed anyone more than I owe you, for advocating for my inclusion in that folly and hapless quest, after such personal failure—the world is bigger and brighter than I ever could have known.

And that wretched dwarf, Mithrandir. I do not know how I will ever part from him. He has guided me like a rising star through this darkness—

And that is the darkness of mortals, I think: that they one day leave us.

My heart is wrapped up in the roots of Middle-earth, and while I know I should go, I cannot. This place tugs at my muscles and claws at my lungs and the longing hurts me so, but those moments of relief between heartbeats, between the contractions of clenched fists and twisted muscles?

That quiet or rush of life in the release is what I live for; it was what I was born to love—the trees, the sky, the birds, the water, the fruit, the folk, the air…

Thank you, and forgive me? I do not know.

I will find you one day, Mithrandir, in whatever form you take, for when these people are lost to the world I walk, I will need to be put back together, and I know I cannot do it myself. Already the thought leaves me breathless.

With love and respect,

Legolas

* * *

.

* * *

**13\. Visits: Things Gained**

I spent the past two days in the kitchens with Gimli hovering at my side. The first day was a blur of blackberries and autumn-olives; milk and oil and puffs of baking flour. In my memory, it is a bitter bite at the edge of my tongue: holly and valerian, chamomile and touch-and-heal and cinnamon sticks—warmth and tea and lots of firewood.

I baked three pies a day, I think, and Gimli has not yet eaten a whole one—the autumn-olives are too hard, and I cannot blame him.

Saida has let the guards off the kitchen door and put Gimli in the room below mine, since she believes I now sleep (and I mostly do). And though I heard her say—I can _hear_ now, above the distraction like crashing waves—that Aragorn is coming, I expect she will let me outside tomorrow, without the children trailing me as shadows.

Gimli cracked an egg this afternoon and missed the bowl, and I watched it happen so slowly I thought for a moment I moved backwards in time, paddling upriver.

When it slid fully from the shell and landed on my foot, I heard myself cry out, and laugh. Gimli's face lit like a thousand suns, and I rubbed my own and got flour in my eyes but was relieved as I took a cloth from my belt and dropped to the ground—

Gimli put his hand on my shoulder and shook me to make sure I was well.

The slip of the egg between my toes coupled with the hard coolness of the tile beneath us was the first thing besides dread and failure I had really felt in weeks, and part of me came rushing back into myself like water—like when you dig a pit in the sand at water's edge… It churned and rushed and filled me with overflowing energy, and I stumbled with the force of it.

I accidentally smeared the yolk across the floor as I cleaned, but I felt better, and my smile lifted Gimli's heart—I have willingly given much, but, in that giving, gained more than I knew existed…

Maybe tomorrow we will go hunting. Or I will dig the ivy from what will be Ithildim's land. Or write Aragorn and tell him I am well enough and to stay home, or perhaps I will finish Faramir's trade agreement.

Or I might just finally close this journal and fold my clothes.

Whatever I choose, it is a start.

**Author's Note:**

>  __  
> You'll recognize a few lines from Legolas' voice if you have read "For Aragorn, After the War." For those of you who have read my other stuff, this takes place the Spring, Summer, and Fall just before "Until the Parting of Ways." Lots of references to my unfinished story "Enough" in here, but no big plot spoilers. // This one was mostly written ages ago, with just a few tweaks today. I'd been putting off doing anything with it as there are another two (and a half) subplots I had written out in letters and did not end up incorporating. The subplots were Aragorn's visits to Ithilien and the notes he left there, for every time Legolas had taken to the woods, and then a very short series of letters between Aragorn and Lumornon, Legolas' older brother. While I'd like to say I did not incorporate these threads because I realized it made the epistolary too unwieldy...the truth is that I lost the hefty collection of scrap paper I'd written it all out on and have never been able to find it. For months. (Some of the awkward transitions are because I imagined other material filling it out, and then changed my mind, but I think it stands pretty all right on its own. Goodness knows I'm not messing with it anymore. Glad to get this one off my chest!) // I was thinking a lot about burnout, vicarious trauma, and post-traumatic stress disorder while writing this piece.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885046) by [UnnamedElement (Unnamed_Element)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unnamed_Element/pseuds/UnnamedElement)




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